Lady Iona's Rebellion (8 page)

Many of the summer residents visited the Pump Room to drink the medicinal sulfur waters that bubbled out of an ornate marble vase, after being pumped in from one of the many hot springs located in and around the town. Others came to promenade within the handsome portico, listen to the musicians set up on the southern side of the room and socialize with friends.

Iona often accompanied her mother and sister to the Pump Room. And Nathan was most anxious to discover how her nerves were faring after last evening’s adventure. Not that it would be proper to approach her, considering how he’d so thoroughly fondled and kissed her. If he were any kind of gentleman, he would do well to stay far, far away from her.

She probably didn’t wish to see him again. He imagined that his plan to suitably frighten her back to her safe, albeit dull, lifestyle might have worked only too well. She was likely cursing his name and vowing to never again traipse off alone with a notorious rake.

But to never see Lady Iona again? A pit of dread sank into his stomach.
Never
? That wouldn’t suit his plans at all.

If he were going to use a prim and proper marriage to the paragon of grace and propriety to get back into his family’s good books, he would have to woo Iona in a very public and staid manner. So why wasn’t he rushing over to the Pump Room to do just that?

Because of his father, that’s why. The old goad would be marching around the marble interior, barking commands at the attendants while downing six glasses of the sulfur waters, instead of the recommended three, for good measure.

And his father would try to block Nathan’s interest in any respectable lady, fearing that Nathan might sully the Wynter family name yet again.

If Nathan had any hope of winning Iona’s hand and society’s nod of approval, he would be wise to act without his father’s knowledge. Which made visits to the Pump Room quite off-limits. Still, he couldn’t stay in this sweltering heat and listen to his valet’s complaints a moment longer.

“I believe I will take breakfast at Sydney Hotel this morning,” he said abruptly, interrupting Freddie’s grousing mid-sentence. He stopped his pacing, took a peek in the gilded mirror that hung beside the front door and adjusted the Gordian knot of his cravat.

Mercifully, Freddie remained silent long enough to help him don a snug-fitting olive-colored single-breasted frock on over a sky blue-and-white-striped waistcoat. The round little valet then stepped back and inspected his employer with a critical eye before diving back into his complaints, listing the amount of extra work Nathan had caused him, clucking on and on like an underfed hen, his voice trailing after Nathan as he escaped to the street and made his way toward the center of town.

Twenty minutes later, Nathan had settled at a small table that looked out onto the gardens on the ground floor of the Sydney Hotel. He’d finished eating a couple of Sally Lunn’s teacakes and was sipping on a coffee while reading a newspaper when two gentlemen with red-rimmed eyes crowded around his chair.

“You are a wretchedly difficult gent to find, Wynter,” Talbot said and dragged a chair over from another table and sat himself into it without invitation. “We were looking for you for over half the night. The stakes in Goldsmith’s back rooms were running fast and high. We had a smashing time of it, didn’t we, Harlow?”

Harlow, who looked as if he was suffering from a devil of a hangover, grunted.

“And where were you, Wynter? Off burying yourself in a pretty piece of fluff perhaps?” Talbot asked, nudging Nathan in the ribs.

“Nothing so glamorous, I’m afraid. After finishing off that bottle of whiskey yesterday afternoon, I spent the evening in my bed and frightfully alone.”

Harlow, who’d found himself a chair to lower himself into, propped his elbows on the table so he could cradle his head. “We visited your apartments,” he grumbled. “No one was about. Not even your chubby little valet.”

A wolfish gleam lit Talbot’s eyes as he waggled his brows. “Ah, we have caught our friend in a lie, Harlow. If I remember correctly, a Miss Rose Darly has newly arrived in Bath to play the part of Euphrasia in
The Grecian Daughter
at the Theatre Royal.”

Nathan rolled his eyes. He knew only too well where this conversation was going.

“Doesn’t the young lady hold a soft spot in your heart, Wynter?” Talbot pressed. “The kind that obliges you to pay her a generous monthly stipend? And shower her with pretty baubles?”

“I cannot image what you’re talking about,” Nathan said, gritting his teeth. The last thing he wanted to do was discuss the talented Miss Darly—not while sensual images of Iona were lingering in his mind.

“Come now,” Talbot said. “The lady travels with a young by-blow that bears an uncanny likeness to you.”

Nathan gave a wordless shrug, unable to deny the charge. The young tot did wear the distinctive Wynter stamp on his face.

“Ha, he does admit it!” Harlow crowed. “Let’s discuss tonight.”

“Tonight?” Nathan asked, wondering why the blazes he was now considered a bosom friend to these young pests. He would have chosen a sound beating over getting foxed with them yesterday if he’d known how closely they’d attach themselves to him this morning.

“Yes, tonight,” Talbot said, leaning forward in his chair, that wolfish gleam still firmly intact and brightening his liquor-reddened eyes. “I need your help.”

“We both do,” Harlow added.

Nathan leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms against his chest and frowned. “With what?” he asked, though he already knew he didn’t want anything to do with whatever scheme they were plotting.

“Not what,” Harlow said, “but who.”

“The glacial Lady Iona, to be precise,” Talbot clarified. He sent Harlow a killing glare. “And
I
am the one who will be taking the first shot at thawing her.”

“We will have an equal shot,” Harlow argued and then groaned. Apparently he’d upset his aching temples with his own voice. His head landed in the cradle of his hands again. “You hold no prior claim, Talbot,” he whispered.

“Lady Iona?” Nathan raised a brow while trying his damnedest to look bored with the conversation when in truth his hands itched to punch something. If anyone was going to thaw Iona, it was going to be him, not Talbot or that whelp Harlow.

Not that she needed any thawing. Because she didn’t.

He’d burned, tossing in his lonely bed all night after being ignited by her inexperienced but all too honest kisses. Her searing passions had licked his body, leaving him aching and as temperamental as a rutting stallion.

“You have to agree, Wynter, that stubborn gel has been a virgin for far too long,” Talbot said, making himself a very tempting target for punching. “It isn’t healthy. Or fair to us men. You said it yourself yesterday, she needs to marry. A beauty the likes of hers shouldn’t be hoarded, except by her husband, of course. What she needs is a thorough seduction.”

“A seduction?” Nathan’s voice grew tighter.

“No one in all of England is more skilled at seducing the ladies than you. At least that is if we are to believe your reputation,” Harlow said.

“We do believe your reputation,” Talbot assured him as if Nathan cared what either man thought of him. “I’ve seen him in action with my own eyes, Harlow. He is quite skilled.”

“And what is it you want from me? Seduce the lady for you?”

“No! Nothing like that,” Talbot said, clearly shocked by such an outrageous idea. “What we need are lessons.”

“Lessons?” First Iona and now Talbot and Harlow? Good God, perhaps he needed to consider opening a school. An institute for the edification of aspiring adventuresses and hopelessly bungling lovers.

As amusing as the idea sounded, it wasn’t going to happen. Not now, not ever.

“No. Now go away.” He grabbed Talbot’s wrist suddenly and gave it a vicious squeeze. “And stay the blazes away from Lady Iona.”

He’d burn in hell before he’d help either man try and seduce
his
Lady Iona. Especially considering how she was firmly set in his own matrimonial sights.

Talbot, trying to twist away from Nathan’s crushing hold, doggedly offered to pay for such unusual schooling while Harlow pouted. The whole affair was on the verge of tipping over into the ridiculous when Freddie showed up at the table, huffing and wheezing and with a nervous twitch in his eye.

“I beg your pardon, m’lord,” he said as he struggled to catch his breath. His poor out-of-shape valet must have trotted the entire distance. “I don’t mean to disturb your breakfast, m’lord, but this just arrived by messenger. The lad said it was dreadfully urgent.”

Nathan released Talbot’s wrist and snatched the folded foolscap from Freddie’s stubby fingers just as his heart plummeted straight into his stomach. He stared at the flowery handwriting, frightened of what news the letter might give.

The circumstances suddenly felt too similar to that horrible night a little over a year ago when an urgent message had been rushed to him in the widow Sharpes’ bedroom.

His father
. Something was wrong with his father.

The old man had overtaxed himself. Nathan should have been more forceful with him, despite his father’s grumbling. He should have been more determined to coddle him, to protect him against growing ill from the exertion of his travels. The Marquess was still weak from his illness and had no business marching about after such a long trip. Nathan should have probably carried the old man into the Royal Crescent townhouse himself.

If something happened to that curmudgeon before Nathan could win his approval, he knew he would never forgive himself.

Fearing the worst, he broke the plain wax seal and devoured the letter’s carefully penned words.

“What is it?” Talbot asked. “Bad news?” He must have read the concern on Nathan’s face, for he dropped his insistent demand to pay for seduction lessons. He leaned over and tried to read the letter. Even young Harlow lifted his head long enough to grimace with concern.

Feeling a little baffled, Nathan quickly folded the letter and stuffed it into his pocket.

Apparently Iona had woken up this morning more resolved than ever to continue her scandalous lessons.

Which made Talbot and Harlow’s abject interests in her only more dangerous. If he were to deny her wishes, she might recklessly rush into either Talbot’s or Harlow’s less than worthy clutches.

“Nothing is wrong,” he said absently as her prettily penned demand waltzed through his head.
Meet me this afternoon at precisely three in the grotto to discuss the circumstances of our next lesson
. She’d not signed her name but had scrolled an ornate
I
.

So she wished to meet him at the notorious grotto, did she?

“Are you sure you are well, m’lord?” Freddie asked. “You look flushed.”

“Am I?”

After last night, he convinced himself that she’d not want to see him again. What she wanted from him was madness. It was pure madness that could only lead to scandal, a scandal that would assuredly drive an irreparable wedge between him and his father.

So why, why was he smiling?

C
hapter Six

“Ah, poppet, you look lovely today,” the Duke of Newbury said as he strolled into the townhouse’s front foyer. He patted Iona’s golden hair as if she were a favored pet.

Seeing how he had picked her future husband with the same care he would a mate for Matilda, his hunting hound, Iona couldn’t stop herself from wondering if he viewed her as nothing more than an interesting pet. Which wasn’t a charitable thought. It pained her that she’d even think such a thing about her father in the first place.

“And where are you heading off to this afternoon?” he asked.

It was a devilish task to meet his gaze. “I have several baskets I wish to deliver. Mrs. Tuftly is in bed with the ague again. And you know how the widow Pulteney so enjoys my company. I plan to bring her this bouquet of posies.” She pointed to the basket at her feet that was piled with flowers.

None of what she’d said was quite a lie, she assured herself as she settled her wide-brimmed gypsy hat on top of her head. She did intend to deliver the fresh blooms to the ladies she visited regularly and, if time allowed, spend an hour or so sketching the centuries-old statue of Minerva that had recently been unearthed near the King’s Bath before traipsing off to Sydney Gardens.

“You have such a kind heart, my dear. Lovington will be lucky to have you.” He drew a neatly folded piece of foolscap from his pocket and placed it in her hand. “This arrived from him today. He included a short note to you, expressing his pleasure with the match.”

The letter burned in her palm like a glowing firebrand. She quickly set it on a side table. “I will read what he has to say later,” she said and then gave her father a hard look.

There had to be some way she could make her voice heard. Dynastic pairings had gone out of style with powdered wigs and beauty marks. Such marriages were barbaric echoes of the past. They had no place in modern society.

She cleared her throat. “Papa,” she said. Several years’ worth of reading feminist writings spurred her courage. “Must I marry Byron? Can we not sit down and discuss my future? You making this lifetime decision for me seems so hasty.” She gave a deep sigh. Her father had always doted on her, had always praised her for her easy manner. Her years of obedience, of putting others before herself, should account for something. “To be honest, Papa, I do not wish to marry anyone at all. I—”

“We have already had this discussion and I will not have it again.” The glimmer of warmth drained from his eyes. “It appears I have sheltered you too well. You don’t understand the ways of the world.” He cupped her chin. “I’m not trying to punish you, poppet. In time you will understand…you will see how this marriage will be the best thing for this family and for you.”

“But Papa, you must listen to me. I only wish to—”

“No, Iona.” He drew his hand away. “Spend your time resigning yourself to what your future can be instead of chasing a fantasy that will never happen. Promise me you will at least try.”

She couldn’t make that promise for there was no way she would gladly accept marriage to her cousin. Why wouldn’t her father listen? Why couldn’t he accept that she wasn’t going to be his obedient little pet in this?

Her first wild adventure last night only supported what she’d suspected to be true—that her path to happiness was intertwined with her path to independence.

As Mary Wollstonecraft prescribed in her
Vindication of the Rights of Woman
, Iona was working on becoming her own person. In order to do that, she had to stop letting the men in her life treat her as if she were naught but a child, unable to make her own decisions. She needed to begin thinking for herself. Which made Lord Nathan’s lessons all the more invaluable. He’d broken free from the expectations his family had placed on him. He lived outside society’s constraints and seemed to be blissfully happy.

And she would too.

That is, as soon as she could figure out how to get her family to listen.